Engaged in Sin (3 page)

She had never felt so … unstable, so light-headed and strange when a man did things to her body before penetration. In the brothel, she was
always
in control with a gentleman; she always played her part to perfection. It had kept her from being punished by Madame. She
must
be in charge of her wits now.

To prove she was in command, that she was not going to give in to nerves or the unusual dizzy feeling in her head, she gave a sultry moan. One of her best.

The duke fondled her derrière and licked her nipple with the tip of his tongue. She felt the oddest … warm, aching feeling low in her belly. With a pang of sadness, she saw that the duke kept his eyes closed. Was it so he wouldn’t be reminded he was blind while he touched her?

A soft moan slipped out from between her lips. One she hadn’t planned. One that was
real
. It was too squeaky, not sultry at all.

His Grace stopped for breath. “If I am going to make love to you, I would like to know your name, angel.”

Anne
. It sounded so dull. Anyway, her name had been given to the Bow Street Runners, who had been called in after Madame’s death. She had to give the duke a false name. A
new
name—a brand-new one for a whole new life. “Cerise,” she murmured. It had been the color Madame had chosen for her, a scandalous scarlet. Now she must act like the sort of bold jade who would willingly wear a red silk gown and shove her bosom at a man to get his attention.

“Lovely,” he whispered in return, then he opened his mouth wide and took quite a bit of her left breast into his mouth. She wasn’t sure whether her name or her nipple was lovely.

He suckled hard. It was too much, the sensations too strong. She’d planned to be bold. Instead, she went stiff and tense. This wasn’t pleasure anymore, but she closed her eyes and fought to endure. She mustn’t stop him and risk ruining the moment. She couldn’t displease him.

The duke sucked fiercely with his eyes closed, long ebony lashes pressed to his cheeks.

He freed her breast and she swayed with relief—until he moved to her right one. His large hand slid beneath the curve to cup her gently, and he fondled her lovingly. She knew he wanted to hear he was pleasing her. She parted her lips and let out another planned moan, the perfect one for this moment—breathy and filled with surprise, as though he was giving her ecstasy she’d never known before. And, in truth, this caress was … nice.

His Grace rewarded her with a raw chuckle. “Like it?”

“Oh, yes.” She wanted him to think everything he did was perfect. Moisture glistened on both her pink areolas. Her lace-trimmed bodice was crushed between their stomachs, her corset digging into her. “Do you want me to undress?”

“There’s no need.” He cocked his head. “Are the drapes drawn? Is the room dark?”

“Yes.” For the first time, she really looked at his study. His house had surprised her when she’d arrived by horse and cart from the village inn. It was a large manor house, symmetrical and solid, surrounded by lawns and woods. It was very similar to the house she had lived in during her childhood, the house she deliberately did not think of now.

This house seemed far too modest and simple for a
duke. The study, however, was filled with beautiful things. A globe stood by the draped windows, beautifully fashioned and lettered, set upon a stand decorated with gilt. Enormous paintings of horses covered the walls. All the chairs were leather club chairs, inviting and comfortable. Books were everywhere: on shelves, stacked upon tables, even piled on the seats of the chairs.

This was a gentleman’s room and one that looked well loved. Yet it seemed so tremendously sad that it was filled with things the duke could no longer see.

“I want to take you from behind,” he said bluntly. “At my desk.”

Whatever he desired she must grant. It was not quite what she’d imagined for their first time together, but she did not dare contradict.

“All right.” Anne took both his hands. She lifted one and sucked suggestively on his index finger as she backed to the large gleaming desk that stood along one wall. This way she could lead him without wounding his pride. When her bottom reached the smooth, polished wood, she stopped. He reached around her and felt the curved edge of the desk.

“Turn around,” he said, with the curtness that lust often brought to a man’s voice. Many girls in the brothel found roughness exciting. They liked lust-driven men. Anne never had before, but now she felt a flood of relief. His harsh tone proved she had gotten exactly what she wanted. The Duke of March now had to have her.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she purred. She braced her hands on his desk and he drew up her skirts. The weight of the silk skimmed over her legs. She pulled the mass of fabric in front of her, bunching it between her stomach and the desk edge. His hands ran up her bare thighs. She closed her eyes. And moaned, as she knew she must, as his fingertips reached her private place.

“God, you are so hot,” he murmured. “Soft as silk.”

She expected him to thrust in hastily and steeled her body for a swift invasion. But he cupped her with his hand and he kissed the back of her neck, nuzzling her skin. A tremor raced down her spine—a little quiver of pleasure. This was not quite right. Why did he not want to be inside her? Was he not ready enough? At Madame Sin’s, men had rarely touched her; after all, they had paid generously for her to be willing and ready without any need for foreplay on their part.

Anne arched her back and wriggled her bottom, brushing it across the duke’s hard shaft. The motion drew a hoarse groan from him. She looked over her shoulder. He was panting. Deep lines bracketed his tight mouth. He was obviously aroused, but apparently he needed more.

She swayed her hips, swinging her rump across him, but he grasped her hips and stopped her.

“No, love. Not yet.” He reached between her thighs once more and gently played with her. No man had ever stroked her so slowly, manipulated her with such care.

She gave a gentle sigh. She did like this touch …

But then his finger found her sensitive nub and rubbed there.

Every inch of her body tensed. He rubbed harder, assuming she would like it. The sensations were more powerful than those from her nipples, too strong for her to bear. At least he could not see how she winced and shut her eyes, how she had to fight not to protest. She played her part, giving him a crescendo of throaty groans, making them louder as his fingers opened her.

Then he slid inside. Deep, deep inside.

She had the fleeting feeling she always did—that it was so strange something this intimate could feel so … distant. Then she remembered what she must do. She had to be a
courtesan
, not just a vessel for his release. She must please him. Delight him. Tempt him.

He was behind her, his groin pressed to her bottom. She felt full, uncomfortably so, but she whispered, “Oh, yes.
Yes
.”

The duke began to thrust. Slow, deep thrusts. She arched back against him, filling the room with her moans.

He reached around and stroked her breast. That startled her, making her stumble in her rhythm. Then he did what she expected—he grasped her hips, held her steady, and plunged into her. Good. Now she knew exactly what to do.

Her moans rose to screams. “Oh, God,” she cried. “Oh, goodness.” She pushed violently back against him, crying out as though in sheer ecstasy. She listened to his breathing. When he was panting hard, obviously growing close to release, she wailed, “I’m coming.” She knew how to display an orgasm, but could all her writhing impress the duke, when he could not see it? All he could do was feel her bottom thrashing against him.

He thrust harder. Faster.

Then he growled, low and deep. His hips drove forward and collided with her bare rump. His body rocked back and forth, climaxing inside her.

“Oh, my,” she gasped.

He collapsed against her, braced on his arms. “That was lovely, angel.”

Thank heaven he had liked it.

He straightened, withdrawing. Her inner thighs were sticky. She’d forgotten she could not tend to herself and clean up at his house. At least she didn’t have to worry about his seed—she had put a vinegar-soaked sponge within, a trick she’d learned at Madame’s.

He stroked her hip softly. “I will have some water fetched, my dear.”

“That is very considerate, Your Grace.” She suddenly realized how unprepared for this she was. She wanted to
be his mistress, but she had no idea what to do. Kat, who
was
London’s most desired courtesan, had told her a mistress must cater to her protector’s every whim and make him feel like a king both in bed and out. But Anne hadn’t asked how to actually do that. Her gaze landed on rumpled blue silk lying on a chair, near where she had found him passed out. “Would you like me to fetch your robe?”

His lip lifted in a rueful smile. “Thank you, love.”

When she brought it back, she helped him into it, but just that meaningless bit of aid made his face darken. He tied the belt and paused thoughtfully. “Tell me why you speak so well for a prostitute, Cerise. Where do you come from?”

“I am the most sought-after incognita in London, I will have you know,” she said airily. Incognitas were mistresses who spoke and behaved like ladies. “Do you think the earl would have engaged anyone but the best and most desired courtesan in London to please you?”

“Honestly, love, I would have thought Ashton would keep the best and most desired courtesan for himself and send someone else for me.”

“Then that was his mistake.”

The duke laughed. “You have distracted me for a while, love, and for that I thank you.” He lifted her hand and softly kissed her fingers. His mouth lingered. Her heart lifted.

“I can distract you more, Your Grace.”

“You have done enough, Cerise. I am sure Ashton will pay you well.”

He was dismissing her again. She panicked. “There is so much more I could do for you—”

“I want to be left alone. It was pleasurable. But our time together has come to an end.” He sighed. “I don’t even know what time of day it is. I assume it is nighttime. That you arrived in the evening?”

“Y-yes. At half-past eight.” Suddenly Anne realized he had been already passed out with an empty brandy decanter at such an early hour.

“Tonight you should stay at the inn in Welby. Take a meal there. My man will ensure you receive excellent service. A mention of my name and you will be well treated.”

It was a kindness, but her teeth tore at her lower lip. There had to be something she could do to convince him to let her stay. She could not give up so easily.

“Ring the bellpull, love,” he commanded.

She didn’t move. He could not see. He could not find the rope himself and have her sent away.

“Do not displease me now.” His voice was deep and smooth, but there was iciness creeping into it. If she annoyed him, she would ruin her chances of seducing him into keeping her. If she did as he asked, she would be in his carriage in mere minutes.

“You will have to go, Cerise.”

It was a final command, issued by a gentleman who had sent soldiers into battle. But terror put words on her lips. “I cannot, Your Grace. I can’t return to London.”

Perhaps her tone made his head jerk up. “Why not?”

Oh, goodness, what was she doing? Telling the truth, like an utter fool. But she dared not tell him all of it—he would have his servants drag her to the nearest magistrate. No one there would believe her. No one would take the word of a whore. Not one who had been forced to hit her madam with a poker to save the life of an innocent girl and was now considered guilty of murder. She hadn’t meant to do it. She had only wanted to stop her vicious madam from shooting a fourteen-year-old girl. She had meant to hit the pistol from the woman’s hand. But she had killed Madame, and she would be convicted of murder and swing for it.

“I—I lied to you, Your Grace,” she said shakily. “I’m
not a courtesan. I was employed in a brothel and I escaped. If I return to London, I do not doubt the madam of the brothel will find me. Or send a footpad to murder me, as an example to the other girls.” Heavens, how easy it was to lie. When one’s life depended on it.

“Angel, I doubt she would kill you. I doubt she would be so concerned—”

“She
would
.” But Madame could not anymore. The woman was dead, and the lurid tale of her death was in the news sheets. Perhaps the duke had not yet received the London news or had it read to him. But even if he knew nothing about Madame’s murder, he might hear about it soon. Was she mad to tell him she’d run away from a brothel? Wouldn’t he naturally reach the conclusion she was the whore suspected of murder?

She swallowed hard. If he didn’t already know, maybe she could prevent him from finding out. She might be safe as long as he hadn’t heard the story. “Please, Your Grace. Please let me stay and pleasure you as Lord Ashton wished. You cannot see them, but I—I still have bruises on me from my madam’s beatings.” She must be truly desperate to have told him she was damaged, but she took his hand and touched her waist, her low back, her shoulders. “There. I’m bruised in all those places.” Then she held her breath.

Her heart almost dissolved in pure relief as he held out his hand. “Come here, Cerise.”

Surely he wouldn’t be so gentle if he thought her a killer. Still, she quivered as she went.

With gentlemanly aplomb, he lifted her hand to his lips. He couldn’t know about Madame’s murder. How could he and brush such a soft kiss to her fingers?

“You can spend the night,” he growled. “Tomorrow I’ll decide what to do with you.”

OMETHING EXPLODED RIGHT
in front of him, and Devon Audley, the Duke of March, did what any soldier with sense would do—he launched himself at the ground.